


Merry Christmas, Gaby

by DawnlitWaters



Series: Das kleine gelbe auto [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Festive spies, Gen, Napoleon Solo Ships Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Slow Dancing, Team Bonding, UNCLE HQ, fast dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-19 18:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17006718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnlitWaters/pseuds/DawnlitWaters
Summary: And lo. The UNCLE Christmas party.





	Merry Christmas, Gaby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azulet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azulet/gifts).



> Prompt: Napoleon teaching Gaby to flirt! And then Gaby flirts with Illya, who doesn't know what to do (or maybe he flirts back)? I think the dynamic between Gaby and Napoleon as friends would be awesome, and watching Gaby flirt with poor Illya (while Napoleon laughs from the sidelines) would be great. No smut please!
> 
> Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for this absolute gift of a prompt. You made my Autumn – I hope this makes your holiday season! 
> 
> I will own up to having some of this story floating about in my head before the challenge started. I have always enjoyed the pleasingly bizarre Christmas party in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, and while that is set ten years later in 1973, the idea of Waverley recreating this British Secret Service ‘tradition’ abroad was too good to pass up. However, smash this half-formed idea together with Azulet’s genius prompting skills, and an honest-to-goodness fairy-light bulb appeared above my head, and this piece of Christmassy tinsel vomited itself onto the electronic paper. 
> 
> If anyone enjoys reading this half as much as I enjoyed writing it, I will be well-pleased. 
> 
> Merry Christmas and a happy winter holiday season to all.

 

 _“Let me tell you 'bout a place,_  
_Somewhere up-a New York way,_  
_Where the people are so gay,_  
_Twistin' the night away._  
_Here they have a lot of fun,_  
_Puttin' trouble on the run,_  
_Man, you find the old and young,_  
_Twistin' the night away_.”

_Sam Cooke_

 

_Tuesday 24 th December, 1963_

Solo's long held belief – that you could be anyone you liked as long as you had their outfit – was under heavy fire from the very existence of Illya Kuryakin. Dress him up as Uncle Sam, and there would still be something almost but not _quite_ imperceptibly Russian about him.

Illya actively trying _not_ to look Russian only made matters worse, his effort inversely proportional to his success.

Currently The Red Peril is standing at the foot of the main staircase, looking impeccably smart and yet starched and uncomfortable in a neatly-fitted dinner jacket and tuxedo pants.

"People are dancing" Illya says, voice low and conspiratorial, as Solo draws near. The same voice he might use to say that people were reading censored, licentious literature in the smoking room, or to announce that the Nazis were at the front gate.

Looking round, Solo can see another room beyond a wide double door, where people are indeed moving about at speed.

Agent Teller's whereabouts becomes less of a mystery.

"Women like a man who dances" says Solo, helpfully. He has this on good authority – his own.

"I cannot dance, not like that."

"So you do dance?"

Illya sniffs.

"Yes, proper dancing. Waltz, quickstep. Not this... Flailing about."

Solo smiles to himself, and sips his drink.

~

_Thursday 19 th December, 1963_

Gaby stands in front of the full-length mirror, which is propped against her living room wall. The light in here is better than in her bedroom, and the more spacious room also allows her to test her outfits for freedom of movement. Essential when packing for the next mission, but also a consideration for other, less life-or-death events. After all, she is even now looking for something she can dance in.

She is momentarily distracted by the sight of fading bruises on her waist and thighs, visible on the skin not covered by her underwear (cream satin today – the novelty of western luxuries has still not worn off). Her injuries are nothing serious – a bump into a wall, a scratch from a fence and the odd lucky punch – just the normal side effects of her new job. But, much like satin underwear, still unusual to her, after so many years of nothing more than scraped knuckles and oily fingernails.

Gaby hums, undecided, and switches her hands, replacing one hanger for another in front of her shoulders – the blue dress for the gold.

Behind her and to her right, Napoleon clinks glass on glass as he refills their tumblers.

“Not the gold” he says, after a quick glance up.

“No?” Gaby rather likes the gold. She looks very good in it, if she says so herself.

“It’s fine, but everyone will be in gold.”

Napoleon walks across to her, holds out one of the glasses. Gaby sighs, casts both dresses aside onto a nearby armchair, and takes her drink. As she swallows a mouthful, it occurs to her to wonder whether she should have put on a slip.

Napoleon settles himself into the other arm chair, gives her a studious look up and down.

“Dior?”

“Dior.”

He nods, takes another sip of his drink, and then turns his attention to the array of dresses she has laid out across the coffee table.

She’s not sure when this became normal – this odd, _comfortable_ feeling between her and the American. Gaby’s not sure if _comfortable_ is even the word for it. God knows the idea of _Illya_ seeing her like this is a different feeling entirely. That is something she wants, very much _wants_ , and yet just the thought of it is enough to make her heartrate quicken and her cheeks darken.

It’s not as if the American is an uninterested party. While she suspects Napoleon swings in whatever direction will entertain him most for the evening, his interest in women is certainly not feigned. And yet, here they are: six months down, and he’s never even made a pass at her.

Six months of missions, of late nights at the office and of sharing moments very like this one: this is not the first time he’s seen her like this – not even the first time he’s sat in that very chair, reviewing her outfits and passing judgement on this or that pair of shoes.

Her surprise is less personal conceit than it is recognition of Solo’s minimal standards, although she flatters herself that she’s not unattractive.

Of course, there is also the matter of Illya: 6’5” of toned, heartsick KGB agent is probably enough to put a cramp in even Napoleon’s style. It’s certainly enough to do terrible, wonderful things to Gaby’s insides.

She casts another look at the American, who is now frowning at her selection of evening bags. This strange, safe privacy between them doesn’t seem to arise out of any deference to Illya. Solo has never really paid her the kind of lascivious attention she might have anticipated, even in those early days in Rome.

Gaby turns back to the mirror, surveys herself again, bruises and all. She ought to feel embarrassed, or shocked or aroused, or _something_. Instead, she feels mostly impatient.

Quite possibly this sense of comfort is simply the sure and certain knowledge that Napoleon Solo has seen it all before.

“Are you going to make a helpful suggestion, or are you just going to drink my vodka, hmmm?”

Napoleon sets down his glass with a thud, shoots her a lazy smile.

“I think I have an idea – wait here.”

He strolls out to the hallway. For a few moments Gaby can hear him moving about, before the door opens and he reappears, carrying a box. He sets it down on the table, while Gaby stands motionless, half-turned towards him.

Surely he hasn’t.

“Also Dior” he says, as he unfolds the tissue paper and lifts out the soft, black material.

“You have bought me a dress” she says, incredulously.

“Well none of yours are quite right. If it makes you feel better, don’t think of it as _me_ buying _you_ a dress.”

“I see” Gaby folds her arms “How should I think of it?”

“Think of it as _me_ buying _Peril_ a Christmas present.”

“Hah!” Gaby drops her arms, “I see, I am a Christmas present now? I am a Bild Lilli doll?”

Solo frowns, wrinkles his eyebrows.

“A what?”

Gaby waves a hand impatiently. “A better version of your ‘Barbie’.”

“Oh. The sexy blonde. I knew I recognised your style from somewhere, Gabs.”

“Pfft. What is this you have bought me?”

She strides forward, inelegant in her haste to reach him, sweeping the dress from his hands and turning back to the mirror. She catches a glimpse of his smile: warm and affectionate, kind. Maybe that’s how he sees her, after all. A little doll, come to life for his amusement.

“Did you play with dolls as a child, Napoleon?”

“No, can’t say I did.”

“Hmmm.” Gaby surveys herself in the mirror, and her sparring mood evaporates.

The dress is very fine, and elegant: cut slim to accentuate and elongate her figure. The shoulders will sit low, she can see, and the back is cut away. It is simple, but striking.

“With pearls, of course. Or maybe gold.”

“So, I am to be Holly Golightly now?”

“There are worse things.”

Gaby turns, this way and that.

“Try it on, at least.”

~

Gaby does.

After some shuffling and wriggling, she holds her hair aside as Solo pulls up the zip.

“There, now. You look just the part in that, Gabs.”

She certainly looks… _something_. Like someone else, for certain. She turns her head side to side, moves her shoulders to sharpen her collarbones above the dress’ sweeping neckline.

“And what part is that, exactly?”

Solo smirks at her, wanders back to the side table to refill their glasses.

“Come, come, Ms Teller. Six months is quite long enough to keep me in suspense, never mind our mutual Russian friend.”

Gaby’s stomach heats, her chest tightens. She looks at the elegant sophisticate in the mirror.

“I think you expect too much of a simple dress” she says, with feeling.  Illya is apparently resolute in his decision to be platonic colleagues. Gaby had been too, back in July. But now it is December, and she has never been a consistent sort of person. Her attempts to thaw the perpetual Siberian winter have not been successful.

“I expect nothing of the dress, but I _do_ expect great things from the person wearing it.”

“Hah.”

“And I’m an excellent judge of these things.”

“I see.”

Solo flops back into the armchair.

“This is a serious mission, Gabs. Do you have any idea how _exhausting_ it is, watching you two _not_ sleep together? It’s wearing.”

Gaby flushes, and the American continues.

“Besides, the tension is unbearable. Our mission in Istanbul was a day at the beach in comparison. Why do you imagine I threw myself through that window last week?”

“To escape being caught in the explosion?”

Solo shrugs.

“A mere bonus. I had to do something to get away from you and Peril, and that puppy-dog expression he’s adopted.”

“He does not have a puppy-dog expression.”

Solo snorts.

“Not when _you_ look at him, no. That’s when he brings out the feverish adoration. He keeps the puppy-dog look for those rare moments you’re _not_ looking at him.”

“Pfft.”

“I’m serious. And the worst of it is that I get it all, both barrels, no matter who’s looking at whom. It’s wearing me to a shadow, and it ends with you putting on this dress and working your feminine wiles.”

Gaby turns back to the mirror, smoothing the material.

“So this is your grand plan, is it? I would have thought you should be working your American charm on Illya. Isn’t this what men talk about to each other? What do you call it –” Gaby makes quotes in the air “– ‘locker room’ talk?”

Solo snorts again, puts down his glass.

“Firstly, Peril and I don’t do ‘locker room’ talk, and secondly I don’t think he enjoys my American charm quite as much as you do, hard to believe though that is.”

“So instead you come round here to look at me in my underwear and buy me dresses?”

Solo shrugs.

“I’d rather look at you than at Peril. Besides, If Peril gets to hear of it, it might well spur him on to throw you over his shoulder and carry you off into the forest, or whatever it is they do in Siberia.”

Gaby rolls her eyes, says “Illya is from Moscow.” Inside, her blood flares white hot, stomach melting and lungs on fire. _Don’t make me put you over my knee_.

“Well, carry you off into the Kremlin, then.”

“That’s not funny.” Gaby primps at her hair, studying her reflection “Besides, if Illya found out you were here, like this, he’d most probably shoot you.”

“Either way, I don’t have to endure the big blue Husky-dog eyes anymore.”

Gaby sighs.

“You are ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but I’m also right. Now, we need to think about shoes.”

~

“Are you enjoying yourself, playing with dolls?”

“I am not going to dignify that with a response, Agent Lilli.”

Gaby tuts, rolls her eyes. Tries on the next bag that Solo hands her.

“Yes, I think that works. Are you sure you can dance in those heels?”

Gaby shoots him a withering look.

“Alright, alright. I don’t want you twisting an ankle, golden opportunity though that would be for Peril to manhandle you off the floor.”

“I think you are living in fantasy land.”

“Well one of us has to. Now, we need to talk about your attitude: your voice, your manners. Body language, the secret art.”

Gaby folds her arms, scowls.

“Now you see, _that_ is exactly what I’m talking about. As demonstrated by the last six months, the KGB is very good at instilling self-control. This is the toughest honeypot mission we’ve ever run – you cannot go around folding your arms and _huffing_ like that. It’s not attractive.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be attractive? This is your dress-up game, not mine.”

“Do you or do you not want to find out what goes on under those turtle-neck sweaters?”

Gaby tilts up her chin, folds her arms more tightly _. Hmmphs_ lightly.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

“You are going to teach me how to be, what, an attractive woman?”

“Of course.”

“And you are going to do this, how, exactly?”

Solo shrugs.

“I am, in case you hadn’t noticed, a connoisseur of attractive women. Some might even say an expert in the field.”

Gaby stares at him. Solo spreads his arms wide, beams.

“I will teach you everything I know.”

“You are insufferable” Gaby enunciates, clearly.

“But first, vodka” says the American, and refreshes their glasses.

~

“More hip” says Solo, seriously, as Gaby trots back and forth across her living room carpet.

“I know how to walk, thank you.”

“Yes, but do you know how to _sway_?”

“I sway on my own time.”

Solo pouts, hands on his hips in what might even be real petulance.

“Not even for me?”

“Especially not for you.”

“If you insist. Well if you won’t sway will you at least practice hands?”

Gaby sticks out her arms, lets her hands flop and flutter about at random. Solo folds his arms.

“Very funny.”

“Well, what about my hands?”

“Do you know what to do with them?”

Gaby pulls back her arms: mimes holding a glass with one, and pouring a bottle with the other. Mimes chucking back a shot. Solo rolls his eyes.

Gaby brings her hands up under chin, palms down towards the floor, fingertips interleaved. She pouts, bats her eyelashes.

“Better, if a little contrived.”

“Well, then. What?”

Solo lifts up his arms with a flourish, holds them out like a magician poised for a trick. With great affectation, he pushes back his shirtsleeves. Then, he carefully rests his right hand on his left bicep, gently squeezes, before sliding the hand up his arm. Upon reaching his shoulder, he circles his thumb lightly, before sliding up to the edge of his collar. Pausing, he shoots a quick look at Gaby, before sliding his hand up, fingers brushing his neck and then curving into his hair at the base of his skull.

Gaby watches, nonplussed.

Solo drops his hands, holds them out as if expecting applause.

“See?”

“See what?”

“See how simple touches are very alluring. Men like it when attractive women touch them like that.”

Gaby arches an eyebrow.

“Who knew.”

“A little goes a long way.”

“Is that what you tell your lady friends?” she fires back. Solo shoots her an unimpressed smirk.

“Very funny.”

“Mmm, I thought so. I’m being charming you see – how the French say, _risqué_.”

“By insulting your partner’s manhood? An unusual technique.”

Gaby sweeps up the bottle, refills her glass.

“You are not my partner.”

“No, and neither is Kuryakin. You don’t want to put him off the idea.”

“By making him laugh at your shortcomings? No, that would not be a good idea” Gaby smirks at him over her glass. She is enjoying herself, the vodka buzzing in her blood. She has had too much, she knows, but also too much to do anything about it.

Solo sighs again.

“Do you want to practice?”

Gaby snorts, sets down the bottle with a thump. She takes two steps towards him, swaying despite herself although not really intentionally. She sets a hand on his bicep and squeezes appreciatively. Even Napoleon looks rather surprised by this sudden turn of events.

“Very nice, but I prefer blondes” she says, breathily. Giggles.

“You’re drunk, Teller.”

“Yes, well I think I will need to be, if this is your idea of helping.”

Solo detaches her hand.

“Men also find it very alluring when women touch themselves, maybe we should stick with that?”

Gaby snorts into her glass.

“I’m sure they do. I’m not _that_ drunk, Mr Cowboy.”

“You know what I mean.”

Gaby giggles again, puts down her glass. Twirls her hair around a finger, starts to walk away from him. Shoots him a coquettish look over her shoulder.

Solo replaces his hands on his hips.

“You know, I’d say you were laying it on too thick, but I suppose this is Kuryakin we’re talking about.”

“Maybe I should just take off all my clothes and walk around naked in the office?”

“I said seduce him, not give him heart failure. I’m not hauling that down to A&E.”

“He is just shy.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Gaby sighs, drops to sit on the old couch. She turns her empty glass about, this way and that.

“Perhaps he doesn’t really feel that way about me, anymore.”

“Nonsense” Solo sits down beside her, removing the glass from her nervous fingers. Gaby looks round at him; chews her lip. Napoleon’s eyes are warm and full of light amusement. He’s not actually smiling, but his expression is open, kind.

“Now, the question of hairstyle…”

~

_Friday 6 th December, 1963_

Just as Waverley had promised – a card invitation, found on his desk as he arrives at UNCLE HQ.

A Christmas party, for spies.

Although perhaps ‘a Christmas party for a secret agency’ might be more appropriate. They aren’t really _spies_ as such, and even if they are, there aren’t many active agents on the payroll. The agency is mostly stocked with researchers, and analysts, telephony and radio specialists. Most of whom are attractive, slender young women, with a casual attitude to what constitutes appropriate work-wear.

Solo already knows all of their names.

The party has been in the air for weeks. Sanders had scoffed and groused and called it ridiculous. Oleg presumably hadn’t been informed, and seemed hardly likely to come to Manhattan. Solo would admit to being sceptical himself, but Waverley had politely but unstoppably continued in his determined course, unswerving in his conviction that Christmas parties were a thing everyone had, secret agency or not.

There hadn’t been so much as a whisper of a thanksgiving celebration. When pressed on this, some days after the fact, by his mostly American personnel, Waverley had reportedly frowned and asked “Why, did you organise one?” When pressed further, Waverley had stated that he had no opinion one way or the other on the Pilgrim Fathers, much less a reason to thank them: indeed, if anything, quite the reverse. This had ruffled rather a lot of feathers, but given that he seemed to hold powerful and yet undefinable sway over everyone in the building, nothing had come of it.

Christmas, though, seems another matter.

“It’s because the Brits celebrate Christmas” Debra says, as Solo watches her paint her nails, her lithe body folded double to reach her toes, foot carefully balanced against the telephone exchange.

Debra is slim, and blonde and Australian.

Solo frowns, but nods agreement. Waverley was single-minded, and persuasive. He always did things his way, and looked on people not following his example with a sort of bewildered pity. He was also very selective about taking direction in diplomatic or social matters: nothing had actually been said, of course, but it was clear to Solo that Waverley would be found dead in a ditch before he would ever submit to any suggestion on social etiquette from an American.

“Should be a good evening – dancing, drinks and food. Are you going, Mr Solo?”

He turns his sunniest smile on her.

“Of course.”

Debra is still focused on her toes: she completes a final stroke, sits back as she tightens the lid on the tiny bottle.

“Is Agent Kuryakin going?” she asks, light, casual.

Too light, too casual.

Solo’s frown deepens.

~

_Tuesday 24 th December, 1963_

And lo. The UNCLE Christmas party.

It is all exactly as Waverley had promised – a Christmas party for spies. Solo can hardly believe it, and he’s standing amidst the tasteful garlands of tinsel and the sprays of twinkling lights. The old house has had its dust covers thrown back and its fire relit – he wonders who owns it, and if it might be UNCLE’s number one himself.

Beside him, Illya is still scowling. Solo decides to poke the bear.

“Gaby is in there” he inclines his head toward the double doors, and the sounds of raucous revelry. Illya’s gaze snaps round to him.

“How do you know that?”

“Because they’re playing rock and roll music. And she’s not over there, by the punch.”

Illya appears to accept this as a reasonable piece of logical argument. He sips his drink, and then grimaces at it.

“What is in this?”

“No idea. Terrible, isn’t it?”

“You are still drinking it.”

“It has its charms, despite its shortcomings.”

He fixes Illya with a look, but either the backhanded-compliment is too well-disguised or Illya is choosing not to rise to it. The Russian instead looks about for somewhere to hide his glass.

“Ah, gentlemen.”

Waverley descends, all crinkled smiles and boyish enthusiasm.

“How are you enjoying the punch? Family recipe, you know.” He watches both of them, intently.

 _He knows_ , Solo realises. _He knows it’s awful. It’s a deliberate ploy._

“Delicious” Solo says, beaming. Illya manages a tight, Russian smile.

~

Napoleon Solo has always enjoyed a good party, and the festivities laid on by UNCLE’s eccentric number one are certainly providing that. There is music, and dancing and appropriately inappropriate balls of mistletoe strung in the doorways and over the stairs. There is a tree – a slightly battered thing that might have been dragged several blocks to get here – and some artfully wrapped shoe boxes to sit beneath it. Despite its sizeable invite list, the whole thing maintains a slightly handmade atmosphere which Solo finds unexpectedly pleasing.

Collecting another drink from the typing pool girls – who are enthusiastically manning the drinks table – he turns about to take in the dancefloor. It’s a spacious room, and there are numerous people twisting and shaking – and some _very_ drunken attempts at ‘The Stroll’ by various couples.

Gaby is, predictably, right in the middle of things. Solo has been watching her on and off all evening, and she is the best dancer in the room by a comfortable margin. Currently, she is energetically dancing The Pony, while holding a long-stemmed cocktail glass up high in one hand. It is frankly impressive to watch, and Solo feels entirely justified in his choice of the slit-thigh over the fishtail cut.

Solo glances across the room, and sees another man who is paying Gaby equally close attention, and who has almost certainly been rather more committed than Napoleon has himself. Peril is leaning against a wall on the other side of the room, entirely failing to drink the glass of amber liquid that’s been in his hand for the last half hour. His eyes are on Gaby, his expression guarded and, to Solo’s practiced eye, wistful.

He has occupied this position most of the night. In fact, the only time Solo has seen him out of it was earlier, when he had met Illya on the stairs while returning from checking his jacket in the small bedroom on the floor above. Illya had strayed under a sprig of mistletoe, and Debra – who may well have been lurking round the corner all evening for just such an eventuality – had sprung out at him, demanding a “Christmas kiss”.

Illya had looked, well – _horrified_ was probably the word for it – but he had quickly schooled his features back into polite, Soviet diffidence. Debra had pouted, stroked his arm, wheedled and batted her eyelashes. Illya had shaken his head, attempted to excuse himself, tips of his ears pink and cheeks following suit. Despite the great slight to himself and the ignominy of picking up the Red Peril’s abandoned leftovers, Solo had graciously thrown himself on the fires of a worthier cause, and had smoothly stepped in to redirect Debra’s eager attention.

She had, in truth, looked a little disappointed, which had been quite a kick to his dignity. But, much like Peril, she’d quickly decided to be polite about it. Unlike Peril, Debra had none of the prim modesty of the Eastern Bloc, and had all of the full-bodied Australian impulsiveness that Solo had been hoping for.

It was therefore some time until Solo – and for that matter, Debra – re-joined the rest of the party. But when he had, he’d found Peril been back in his spot as the world’s tallest, deadliest wallflower.

Solo looks back to Gaby. The music has changed, she has abandoned her glass, and is now engaged in an energetic twist with George Foster, the quiet, sardonic young man who only last week had calmly and carefully demonstrated a laser of his own design that could cut through reinforced concrete like it was warm butter. The week before that, he had presented Solo with a pair of spectacles that doubled as night vision goggles. 

Solo rather hopes George is also able to demonstrate considerable skill at self-defence, because the look Illya is currently sending in his direction makes the concrete-slicing laser look like an executive laser pointer.

Gaby and George dance on, oblivious, much to the amusement and awe of the surrounding dancers, several of whom have stopped to watch. Illya continues to fume silently in the corner, hands curling and uncurling at his sides, arms ram-rod straight.

Solo sails swiftly over, to put the Russian out of his misery, and before there is a regrettable incident.

“Hey there, Peril.”

Illya grunts, doesn’t take his eyes off the dancefloor. Solo steals a glance, and watches, admittedly impressed, as Foster throws Gaby up and over his head, and the ex-ballerina executes a six-foot high leap-frog manoeuvre, to land perfectly on the other side.

“Enjoying yourself?” Solo persists. Illya still doesn’t look away.

“Yes, I am having wonderful time” he grits out. There is a cry from the floor and a few amazed gasps. Solo looks round to see Teller and Foster, New York’s latest and greatest dance act, flipping each other over and over – a perpetual tumbling act. When he looks back at Illya, the man is actually grinding his teeth, something Solo had read about but never seen done.

“Good, aren’t they?” Solo says, throwing all caution to the wind. This finally draws Illya’s gaze.

“Yes. Very impressive.”

“ _Quite_ the pair” Solo adds, bracing himself for physical assault.

“You think so?” says Illya, with a pained frown. Solo watches him narrowly, as Kuryakin’s expression evens out as he remembers that he is the KGB’s finest and therefore above dalliances with tiny _Ossi_ German women who drive like John Surtees and dance like the devil.

“Well, dance partners certainly. I’m not sure Teller is really Foster’s type.”

Illya looks gloomily out at the floor again, where Gaby and George are still dancing as if for the title.

“What makes you say that?”

Solo smirks. He cannot be certain, of course, but he is certain enough to give Kuryakin a sliver of hope. He likes George immensely – he’s a bright spark with a wickedly dark, gallows humour and a recently revealed ability to keep up with a Gaby Teller all-night dancing jag. He is also, if Solo is any judge, which he usually is, not especially interested in women.

“She’s not the right shape” says Solo, cryptically. Illya frowns.

“She is perfect shape.” Solo feels his eyebrows rocket up to his hairline, and he nearly gives himself whiplash turning to look at the Russian. Illya freezes, swallows, looks down at his mostly-full glass as if it has wronged him, and discreetly turns to place it on the trestle table close by.

He refuses to meet Napoleon’s eyes.

“Well, taking that as read” Solo leaves a little pause to make Illya squirm, which works like a charm “I still say that George doesn’t see it like that.”

“What would you know” says Illya, gruffly.

“Nothing, but I have my suspicions.”

Illya turns to look at him, brow furrowed.

“What do you mean? Suspicions?”

Solo shrugs.

“Like I say, Gaby is not his type.”

They both look back to the floor, where Gaby and George are executing a perfect twist manoeuvre, in time and in tandem. Gaby is clearly having the time of her life.

“You think he likes tall women?” says Illya, doubtfully. Solo smiles.

“I think he likes tall men.”

Illya’s head whips round, eyes wide. He stares at Solo as if the American has just announced he’s a member of the Communist Party. Solo tries not to laugh.

“Yes, I think so.”

“No, is not possible.”

“I promise you it’s not _im_ possible.”

Illya looks back at the dancefloor. Solo watches the side of his face. Now he thinks about it, he’s not sure if this is quite such the good idea it had seemed on the other side of the room. Illya has rather a patchwork set of views and beliefs, some of which are textbook Soviet, and some of which are anything but. Solo isn’t sure that the news regarding George Foster is going to come as a relief, or a nasty shock.

Illya’s thoughtful expression settles back to stony wistfulness.

“Well, he makes Gaby very happy.”

For one of the few times in his life, Solo finds himself without words. He looks at the man in front of him and realises he has nothing to say. He feels _sadness_ – despite the party, the music and even his own inner constitution. It is radiating off the man in front of him, a breeze of chilly loneliness that makes him pause.

A burst of sound jolts him out of it, drums and a shouted exhortation to “ _Come on everybody, clap your hands_ ”. Solo turns back to the dancefloor, to see that general chaos has once more resumed. George Foster is off to the right, dancing with Debra and the gaggle of girls who work in telephony. Waverley is across the other side of the room, leaning against the drinks table and talking with one of the dour men who have something to do with financing the UNCLE operation, and who wear a perpetual scowl as a result.

And Gaby. Who has seen him and Peril, and who is making a beeline toward them.

Or, not quite. She is _dancing_ a beeline toward them, impeccably twisting her way over. She beckons towards them, never missing a step or a word in her immaculate lip-syncing routine.

Or, no, no – not lip-syncing, it turns out, as she gets close enough to hear over the music.

“We’re gonna do the twist and it goes like this!” she yells.

Solo shoots a glance at Illya, who looks torn between Debra-levels of revulsion and an overwhelming urge to grab onto Gaby and never let go. Gaby settles the point for him, by reaching out for his unresisting hands and lifting them up between them. She casts a quick look at Napoleon – just long enough for him to realise that she is considerably more sober than might be expected – before focusing all her attention on Illya. Her body and feet are in motion, bopping up and down and side to side, legs bending like long, attractive spaghetti, bare skin flashing on and off display as the material of her dress moves.

It’s an arresting display. Napoleon feels that perhaps he ought to make himself scarce, but he’s enjoying the moment too much to move. He lifts his drink to his lips and decides to see what happens.

~

_Friday 6 th December, 1963_

When Illya had found the card on his desk, he had assumed it was a joke. Cowboy, playing a prank.

A Christmas party. For spies. _Yerunda._

Gaby and Solo are nowhere to be seen, and he works at his desk in their shared office in blissful silence. Gaby, he thinks, will be in the garage, underneath an engine with her hands in the oily guts of it, the pink tip of her tongue just sticking out at the corner of her mouth –

Illya abruptly stops thinking, looks at the grain of the wood on his desk. Breathes.

He thinks instead of Solo. Napoleon will have crammed twenty-four hours of mission preparations into a single sitting, and will now, Illya confidently predicts, be chasing something in a skirt around the UNCLE premises. Napoleon is invariably chasing something in a skirt, and doesn’t seem to tire of the game.

At one o’clock, Illya tidies away his desk, and goes to lunch in the UNCLE mess hall, as Waverley calls it. Gaby likes to eat there, and Illya likes to meet her. Solo mostly looks pained and speaks loudly about a nice little Italian / Spanish / French place he knows round the corner.

(On one occasion, this little show had attracted something in a skirt, and Solo had disappeared for the rest of the day with Angela from Personnel.)

Illya sets off down the corridor towards the stairs. The mess hall is located on the floor above and a shiny metal lift has been provided to speed people up and down the building. Beyond that, is a largely disused staircase. It’s a convenient training area, for someone wishing to jog up and down a few times to stretch their legs.

Or at least it used to be.

“Hello, Illya” Judith from Communications appears from nowhere, as soon as he is through the door into the stairwell.

“Judith” he says, politely, gives her a small, closed-mouth smile.

“Call me Judy” she murmurs, smiling up at him, eyes wide.

“Ah, thank you” he manages. Judy lays a hand on his arm.

“Are you taking the stairs also?” he asks, trying to sidle out of her reach.

“Mmmhmm, if you are?”

Illya nods, starts off up the stairs at a walking pace she can easily follow in her heels, his little moment of exercise once again snatched away. Yesterday, it was Debra, from the telephone exchange. Judy takes his arm, wrapping both her arms around it and squeezing appreciatively.

As they begin to climb the stairs, she suddenly falters, tipping sideways with a little squeak. Illya manages to catch her, but Judy gasps in pain as he sets her upright.

“Oh, my ankle. These damn shoes, wouldn’t you just know it?”

“Is fine, I will help you to lift.”

“Oh no, I don’t think I can make it. Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I’m causing you all this trouble…”

“Is fine, really, I can ummm… I can carry you?”

“Oh my, that is kind of you. Are you sure?”

“Is no trouble. Really. I will just take you back to lift –”

“Oh but we’re halfway up already, and I work on the top floor. Do you think you could, well… carry me upstairs?”

Illya sighs, inwardly.

“Fine.”

He scoops her up, and she settles her arms around him obligingly, and he begins the short climb. The ‘pain’ of her ankle forgotten, Judy is suddenly all animation.

“Are you going to the party?”

“Party?”

“The Christmas party.”

“You got this too?”

“Sure, everyone got one. It’s going to be such fun.”

“Huh.”

A few moments later, and Illya enters the mess hall, Judy from Communications triumphantly in his arms. Several people turn to look. The first thing he sees is Cowboy, a fork of something halfway to his mouth and his jaw hanging open like something on an advert.

The second thing he sees is Gaby, who looks him up and down and then goes back to reading her magazine.

From her vantage point in his arms, Judy beams at the onlookers.

“My ankle just went right over, and Illya – I mean Agent Kuryakin here – just went right on and carried me upstairs.”

Judy giggles, Illya tries not to catch Solo’s eyes and Gaby refuses to look up from the glossy pages in front her. The buzz of general conversation returns.

Gaby straightens her magazine with a snap.

“What fragile ankles you American women have.”

Judy shoots her a poisonous look, which Gaby affects not to notice. Illya swallows, sets Judith down somewhat abruptly, and leaves her standing rumpled in the doorway, ankle apparently miraculously recovered.

Illya takes his seat beside Solo, who is chewing his food with an especially smarmy look on his face.

“Shut up” Illya snaps at him, pre-emptively.

“Quite the fan club, you seem to have” Gaby quips.

“She ambushed me in stairs.”

“I did not know the KGB were vulnerable to attack in staircases. Sounds like an oversight.”

Illya growls.

~

_Tuesday 24 th December, 1963_

Gaby – delicate, fairy-lit, life-and-soul-of-the-party Gaby. Dancing towards him, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed, hair half tumbled out of its elegant up-do. He wants to put his hands in it, and the thought is so visceral it shocks him.

“We’re gonna do the twist and it goes like this!” she half sings, half shouts, arms reaching out for him. Her hips sway, her legs bending and twisting, the dark material of her long dress flicking this way and that, revealing tantalising flashes of her calves and thighs as she moves. His mouth is dry.

Gaby catches his hands, her slender fingers warm against his skin. She sways his arms this way and that, pulling him toward her, his shoulders starting to move with the music. She grins at him, and the man’s voice on the record belts out _“Come on let's twist again, like we did last summe_ r” and Illya is _lost_ , _panicked: back in Rome_. He is in an ornate hotel room, with an angry, drunken chop-shop street rat, who for some, unfathomable reason, is determined to get a rise out of him. The chop-shop girl slaps his hands into his own face, discards her sunglasses and then canons into him, tackling him onto the floor and into every piece of furniture in the room, as he tries in vain to hold her back, while simultaneously not doing her any harm.

 _Twist again like we did last summer_ indeed. She has planned this. Gaby _is_ devious, and she has _planned this._

Illya is furious, and aroused, and petrified that any moment she will try and make him do this _smeshnoy tanets kraba_ , this _ridiculous crab dance._

“No” he says, firmly, shaking his head. Gaby pulls harder on his hands.

“Let’s twist again” she sings, quietly, below the music, still bopping about in time. Illya casts a look around and sees Solo, apparently settled in to watch. He shakes his head frantically at the American, who pouts and slowly moves his head side to side.

Illya curses him under his breath, as Gaby finally gives up her play fighting and hauls hard on his arms. He stumbles forwards, and once they are moving she is leaning back, drawing him after her with their joint momentum. Once they are on the floor, Gaby picks up the twisting again in earnest, sinuously waving about in front of him and gazing up at him with big, brown eyes.

He can’t move, much less dance. Someone knocks into him, whirls away. Someone laughs, shouts at him in jest. Gaby pulls on his arms, pouts, swings them harder.

“I told you, I need a partner.”

“No.”

“Illya – ”

“No!”

“Just a dance –”

“Dance with Foster – he likes it” he snaps suddenly, with venom.

Illya rips his hands out of hers, spins on his heel and marches away. Blackness dances at the edge of his vision; he feels irrationally angry. Dangerously so – this is one of many reasons why Gaby is a bad idea. He strides out of the room, heading for the bathroom and the relief of quiet and cold water.

~

Solo watches Gaby watch him go. Her chin is tipped up, her neck straight and proud, her whole body suddenly and incongruously motionless in the middle of the heaving dancefloor.

 _A bold attempt, Teller, but looks like it didn’t pay off_ , he will say to her later. Later, when they are inevitably alone together, in the back of a cab or in his kitchen, pouring whiskey.

Unless he and Gaby _aren’t_ alone together at the end of this evening, in which case his observation is null and void.

Always assuming it _is_ Illya she goes home with, of course.

Solo finishes his drink, and wonders.

~

_Friday 6 th December, 1963_

It is Judy, today.

They are getting bolder, these _other_ women. If it wasn’t so obvious that the whole thing made Illya wildly uncomfortable, Gaby would be worked up into a blazing pyre of jealous rage by now. As it is, the one suffering most is Illya himself, which serves him right.

Judy has managed to wrangle her way into his arms, in fact. _Schlaue hexe._

Gaby remains focused on her magazine. On these occasions, it is vital to be the superior alternative.

Not difficult, when the opposition is a high-pitched, American with flimsy ankles and terrible acting ability, but nevertheless.

“Quite the fan club, you seem to have” she says, needling.

“She ambushed me in stairs.”

“I did not know the KGB were vulnerable to attack in staircases. Sounds like an oversight.”

Illya growls. Gaby preens, inwardly, and refocuses on her magazine.

~

_Tuesday 24 th December, 1963_

Solo turns away from the table, another drink in hand. His gaze falls on Illya, who is once again standing alone at the edge of the dancefloor.

The Russian is staring at something.

Solo follows his gaze and sees… Gaby. Poised and still, in the middle of the floor. She has refreshed her costume since he saw her last – her hair fixed back up, her make-up flawless. She looks, if possible, even more put-together than when she first arrived. Solo finds his own jaw has dropped a little.

She is not looking at Illya, in such a way that it is clear she is focusing all her energy _at_ him.

It is clearly working.

With birdlike suddenness, she flicks her gaze upwards, catches his eyes and then they are staring right at each other.

Someone bumps into Solo, lays an apologetic, feminine hand on his arm. He shrugs it away, without blinking, without turning to look.

In front of him, the staring goes on and on.

Gaby breaks first. Or rather, reaches a decision: she doesn’t take her eyes off the target at any point. She takes a step forward; then another, and another. A steady, purposeful walk across the room.

Illya is transfixed.

Solo watches, mesmerised.

And then, just when everything is going so very well, something comes to disrupt it all. A tall, dark, handsome something, appearing in Solo’s view and looming up out of the crowd behind Gaby. Solo recognises the chiselled jaw and Mediterranean colouring of UNCLE’s resident imaging specialist. Solo flinches, a hair’s breadth from starting on some half-baked plan to intercept the other man, though what he might do is really anyone’s guess: he is several feet away, unprepared, unarmed – even without any blunt, harmless projectile –

Gaby’s arm thrusts out, palm outwards. The imaging specialist has clearly developed tunnel vision, and walks straight into it. He looks down, confused, at the hand at his chest.

Gaby doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. She pauses a secondly only, then drops her arm, and continues walking. She hasn’t taken her eyes off Illya. The imaging specialist stands forgotten; is swallowed up in the swirl of the crowd.

Gaby reaches the edge of the dancefloor, stands right in Illya’s personal space, and sets her hands on his shoulders. She looks up at him with the flare of a challenge in her eyes and even several feet away, Solo can feel the heat of it like gamma rays.

It occurs to him that the afternoon in Gaby’s flat was clearly a complete waste of time.

Gaby says something but he’s too far away to catch it, and besides, he’s seen enough. Gaby quite clearly doesn’t need his help, after all.

~

“Dance with me.”

Illya stares down at her. She’s not sure he’s even breathing. She isn’t sure _she_ is even breathing. After the unqualified disaster of the twist, she’s hoping this is more successful.

“I think we have established I do not want to dance.”

“Not even a waltz?”

Illya looks torn. Gaby isn’t proud of herself, but she gazes up at him, makes her eyes big and doe-like. If it works for Judy and Debra, surely, _surely,_ it will work for her. _Lieber Gott, let it work for her just this once_.

Illya sighs.

“Fine, yes. If we… must.”

“How very flattering.”

Illya scowls, apparently ready to withdraw the offer, but Gaby has her arms out in hold position quick as a flash, and Illya moves in to hold her as if pre-programmed to do so.

“There, now. Much better.”

They move out onto the floor, Illya still stiff-backed and awkward. Gaby determinedly moves with the music, doing more leading than being led. Illya’s gaze is flicking about as if looking for snipers.

“Are you going to join in, or not?”

Her voice seems to recall him to the moment. He looks pensively down at her, and then takes a decisive step, moving them both in time and apparently finally decided to dance. Gaby gifts him a small, smug smile.

It is a different sort of dance to her earlier, more energetic efforts. Not least, because the music itself is softer and smoother, but also because of just who she is dancing with. She hadn’t really expected him to do the twist earlier, and in hindsight – which is 20/20 and less adrenaline-fuelled – it was madness even to try. She cautiously resettles her hand on his shoulder and notes the way his eyelashes shiver; the nervous bob of his throat.

Gaby wants to say something, but she has no idea what it is.

Illya continues to lead them around the floor, negotiating a corner with practiced ease, and Gaby wonders where and when he learnt to dance like this. If it is a spy skill, or something older: a technique for maintaining cover, or something from a life before. Though, as Gaby has learned, for Illya the two things are not mutually exclusive.

He is watching her, the frustratingly familiar little frown just bending the corners of his mouth. His hands are very light where he’s touching her, as if he’s trying not to touch her at all. He might be disgusted by her, as far as this little show is concerned, but Gaby still remembers almost-kisses, warm arms round her shoulders and looks that took a whisk to her insides.

In that, at least, Napoleon was annoyingly accurate in his observations. 

She presses herself closer against him – proper ‘in hold’ position, after all – and fixes her gaze on his. These avoidance tactics come from _his_ self-imposed rule, not hers. She can do what she likes, and he will just have to deal with it.

He is warm and solid, and he smells delicious. To her surprise and delight, he doesn’t push her away. In fact the hand on her waist presses into her more firmly: imperceptible to an observer, but Gaby can feel it in her skin beneath her dress.

More daring, she ducks her head, holds her face close to his collar, the exposed skin of his throat. Practically light-headed, she feels the gentle pressure of Illya brushing his mouth against her hair.

Her mind unspools the next few seconds, minutes, hours. Their _schrecklich_ conversation in New York is a distant bad dream, a thing to be forgotten, laughed at. They will dance now, and keep dancing, until they sneak away to avoid Napoleon’s gleeful mockery and catcalling. There will be a taxi, the glittering streetlights outside the windows and stairs to Illya’s front door. There will be the dark hallway beyond, and the memory of July and the crushing, breathless feeling of caging something away in her chest as Illya explained in careful, precise English, all the reasons that they shouldn’t pursue a romantic relationship.

 _Despite wanting to_.

Gaby has clung onto that little phrase. His moment of unguarded honesty in what was otherwise an obviously rehearsed speech. _Despite wanting to_. Now he has come to his senses, Gaby plans to make other memories in that hallway. And elsewhere.

She smiles, pleased with herself. Pleased with Waverley, for creating such an opportunity. Pleased, even, with Napoleon, for selecting what she cannot deny is a truly excellent dress.

She feels drunk, or delirious. It cannot have been this easy, all along. She moves to press a gentle kiss to his throat.

“This is not good idea” Illya says, below the music.

Her heart abruptly stills and solidifies to cold, heavy lead in her chest. If not a change of mind, what is this? Why throw her such a rope and then allow her to hang herself like this?

Something hot uncurls in her stomach. She thinks of Debra, of Judy.  

_Foolish Gaby, foolish._

“You have changed your mind about _me_? This is what, pity?”  

“No, that is not problem” Illya murmurs. She can feel his mouth brush against her hair.

“Then what?” she pulls back to look up at him. His expression is sad, but reserved. Always reserved.

“You know it already. You are British agent, and I am Russian agent. That story does not have happy ending.”

“You don’t know that” she says, suddenly petulant, desperate to prove him wrong “how many Russian agents do you know who have been with a British agent –”

“Gaby –”

“Besides, I am not a British agent, I am an _UNCLE_ agent. Like you.”

“For now, yes.”

“For always” she insists.

“Gaby –” his face is sad, but his hands are tighter on her, pulling her closer even as he tells her it isn’t going to work. _Impossible man_.

Suddenly she is tired. She realises that they have stopped moving, other couples floating past them. Illya is watching her, apparently unwilling to say any more, but equally unwilling to let go.

“Can we just dance?” she says, resigned, “just this once?”

Illya nods, silently, and Gaby steps closer to him again. Her heart hammers in her chest, and she has the strangest sensation of being about to lose him, even as he is stood right in front of her, warm under her hands. When the music draws to a close Illya stops moving, lets her go and makes as if to walk away.

“One more” Gaby says quietly. She holds his gaze.

“’ _Just this once’_ ” Illya reminds her, the frown deepening.

“ _Da, tol'ko odin raz_ ” Gaby agrees, the words clumsy but apparently decipherable. The use of Russian clearly affects him: a muscle twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“One more, little chop shop girl” he says, fond, and her heart lifts and steadies as he gives her a small smile, the rarest of his expressions.

“One more” she agrees, and takes his hand.

~

Napoleon finds her a while later. She has sought quiet refuge on one of the little bench seats in the echoing entrance hall. It is cool and calm out here; she has lost her taste for dancing.

“This is not like you, Agent Lilli.”

She quirks her eyebrows at him; reaches down beside her where she has stashed a bottle of Waverley’s whiskey, takes a large swig.

“Ah, now we’re back on familiar ground.”

Napoleon sits down beside her, careful not to crease his suit in the process.

“So, why are you missing the party?”

“I think I have had enough of partying for one day.”

“Hmmm… or not enough dancing with Peril.”

Gaby elbows him, hard.

“Go away, Napoleon.”

“I thought you did very well, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“Well, the fact that our mutual friend is a joyless Soviet whose only hobbies are shooting people and bugging hotel rooms.”

“He also plays chess.”

Solo shoots her a smile. Gaby takes another drink.

“He’s not coming back to throw you over his shoulder then?”

“ _Da müssten schon wunder geschehen_.”

Solo smirks, shrugs.

“ _Der hunger kommt beim essen._ ”

Gaby laughs, hollowly, and takes another swig.

Solo watches her a moment longer, and reaches a decision.

“Do you want to come back to my place? Have a nightcap?”

Gaby lifts her head.

“What about Debra, and Angela and the rest of them? I’m surprised your bedroom door doesn’t have a queue line set up this evening.”

“You wound me.”

Gaby sucks in a breath.

“I will not be much entertainment.”

“No one I’d rather spend my evening with.”

Gaby turns to look at him. She studies his face for the lie, and sees it isn’t there.

“I mean it, Gabs. Let’s you and I get drunk, how’s about it?”

Gaby considers, looks out into the dark night beyond the windows.

“Fine.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Oh, but my coat.”

“Mine too. I’ll fetch them.”

“No, no – I would like the walk. I’ll only be a minute.”

“As you like.”

~

Gaby navigates back through the rooms, the noise of music and voices rising and swaying as she weaves between rooms, like the tide in the corners and hollows of a seashell. She manages to avoid most of the party, walking quickly past couples and groups who are lounging in quieter extremities of the house. She gains the main staircase, locates their coats in the small room off the hallway upstairs, and carefully steps around the amorous, oblivious couple in the alcove by the door.

Descending the stairs in quick, neat steps, her mind is full of the prospect of escape, a quiet taxi ride and drinking herself into forgetfulness in Solo’s kitchen.

On the halfway landing, she finds herself confronted with Illya Kuryakin.

The familiar little frown settles on his face, and she expects him to walk straight past her. Instead, his gaze lifts, and she follows it up.

Mistletoe.

Her heart sinks. She prepares herself for some Soviet commentary on ludicrous Western rituals. She schools her face into a sullen and mulish pout: two can play at stubborn disinterestedness.

Illya swallows.

“Well, apparently is tradition” he rumbles, steps forward, and presses his mouth gently to hers.

For a moment, Gaby is too stunned to do anything.

Then she cautiously opens her mouth, draws Illya’s full bottom lip just barely between her own. She can smell the warm, familiar scent of his skin and the tang of his aftershave.

He steps away, and the moment is over. She blinks at him, takes in his flushed cheeks and the deer-in-the-headlights brightness of his eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Gaby” he mumbles.

It jolts her out of whatever moment they have been in. She waits for him to step past her, continue up to collect his coat. Instead, he turns away, back down the stairs, coat already over his arm.

Hope, impossible hope, floods her.

 _He waited_. He waited for her, under the mistletoe.

~

“All set?” Solo asks, as she returns to the quiet, chill air of the hall.

“All set” she confirms, smiling and happy, heart loose in her chest.

“Shall we?” having put on his jacket, Napoleon holds out his arm, and escorts her to the little yellow Aston Martin, which is parked outside.

As they crunch out onto the gravel, Gaby pauses.

“Merry Christmas, Napoleon.”

He looks at her oddly, one hand on the door of the car.

“Merry Christmas, Gaby.”

Gaby smiles at him, and he opens the door.


End file.
